


MPU Holiday Event: Counting Down to Christmas

by the_wordbutler



Series: Motion Practice [44]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Cable and Deadpool, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Comicverse), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Young Avengers (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Holiday prompts, Legal Drama, Multi, but there is something for everyone, holiday stories, minor and original characters abound, motion practice universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 01:44:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9050221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler
Summary: There's more than one way to prepare for the holidays.
In fact, strictly speaking, there's at least twenty-eight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Rather than writing a full holiday story this year, I decided to do a sort of "holiday advent," with one short drabble-style tale for each of the days between the first Sunday of advent and Christmas Eve. Sara found me some awesome prompts, and after a time, I ended up visiting a bunch of the more minor members of the MPU. Inside, you'll find all of your favorite characters--and maybe a few you forgot about!
> 
> These stories are wholly unbetaed, but hopefully, still enjoyable. As a note, they exist in a sort of liminal space where the current story isn't happening and everyone is happy. Because I am weak that way.
> 
> Happy holidays to all of you!

**Nov. 27 – Hope**

"Your handwriting is, like, literally terrible," Wade grumbles, squinting at their shopping list.  "Is that a Q in the middle of that word?  Seriously, did you write this with your left hand while entertaining yourself with the other?  Because while I'd never complain about the accompanying mental images, I—"

 

A soccer mom with at least ten Bath and Body Works bags slams into Wade, interrupting his completely justified rant.  Not that he judges soccer moms on the regular—they pretty much run the world—but really, who needs _that_ man three-wick candles?

 

(Not counting that one autumn-scented candle that reminds him of freshly fallen leaves on a crisp October morning, of course.  He's not an _animal_.)

 

"That's a B, and you need reading glasses," Nate says suddenly, his mouth dangerously close to Wade's ear.  Wade whips around to glare at him, but just like always, his pretty much favorite person smiles.  "She wants a soccer ball, three very specific books, and an Easy Bake Oven.  Not hard."

 

"Unless you married a guy who writes in some kind of Cyrillic-hieroglyphic hybrid," Wade retorts.  "Then, it just looks like hot garbage."

 

Nate snorts and shakes his head right up to the point that Wade wads the list into a ball and tosses it in the nearest trash can.  Well, technically, he misses, but the general principle still stands.  "I don't—"

 

"Your daughter provided a list to her mother," Wade explains, recovering his trash, "who fracked and strip-mined it until you can't even grow soybeans on the land.  And soybeans are exceptionally hardy."  He frowns.  "At least, I think."

 

Nate raises his sexiest and most skeptical eyebrow.  "And your solution is to throw out the list?"

 

Wade grins.  "No, my solution is to—"  He digs into his coat pocket dramatically.  Three pockets later, he whips out a bright green sheet of Keroppi-branded paper.  "—shop from the real list!"

 

His definitely superior half studies him for a couple seconds before he smiles.  Not, like, a smirking, smug smile.  A genuine, face-warming, _I knew I married you for a good reason_ smile.  "You're about to be Hope's favorite," he says.

 

"About to be?" Wade scoffs, linking his arm through Nate's.  "Oh, my sweet summer child, you're _so_ behind on the times."

 

* * *

 

 

**Nov. 28 – Awake**

"Let's give her fifteen more minutes." 

 

Steve chews his lip, considering, and Bucky shakes his head.  Here in the house, everything feels like something out of Currier and Ives:  a fire in the hearth, twinkling lights on the tree, Bing Crosby crooning from Steve's iPod.  Outside, on the other hand, a Dot-shaped lump of blankets shivers on the porch swing while she waits for Santa.

 

(Steve'd draped her in blankets and strategically positioned a couple space heaters before she'd ever set foot outside.  Still, with the snow and the wind, Bucky's glad she'd sent them back inside.)

 

"You know some kid at school convinced her that Santa's done after this year, right?" Bucky asks, and instantly, Steve frowns.  "Told her that seven's the magic number, and after, all you get is socks and underwear.  I tried reminding her that Miles still scores presents from Santa, but guess we know where she inherited her stubborn streak."

 

He nudges Steve's arm, and for the first time all night, his husband almost smiles.  Still, he studies their kid for a couple more seconds before saying, "I don't want her to lose it, you know?  The season's magical when you're her age, and I don't want her to catch a cold and feel like Christmas betrayed her."  He tosses a glance at Bucky.  "She tell you which kid?"

 

Bucky shakes his head.  "Somebody in the after-school program.  Think he messed with a bunch of the first-graders."

 

"Surprised she didn't sock him."  He coughs to hide his laugh, and just like always, Steve slings an arm around his waist.  Drags him close, like they're teenagers again, and asks, "You said fifteen minutes?"

 

"Yeah," Bucky replies, pressing his nose to his husband's shoulder.  "Let her soak in a little more magic."

 

* * *

 

 

**Nov. 29 – Watch**

"Here," Jasper's niece instructs, nudging Maria's shoulder.  "Watch me, okay?"

 

She nods, not that Isabel notices.  No, the pint-sized master of all things gingerbread totally ignores her, icing the eaves of their ramshackle little house with surgical precision.  At eight, she wields spreaders, piping bags, and gumdrops like a professional.

 

Maria, on the other hand, has powdered sugar in her hair.

 

Over at the other table, Jasper carefully adds another candy cane to the lane outside their house.  Maria's not sure who decided on staging a gingerbattle of the sexes with Lisbeta's kids, but at this point, her table is definitely losing.  Eric, Jon, and Jasper's house reminds her of a Disney-branded Downton Abbey, while theirs—

 

"Stop it, Sofia!" Isabel snaps, swiping at her sister's hand.  "I just finished that part!"

 

"Yeah, and you missed a spot," Sofia defends—while sucking icing from her thumb, of course.

 

Maria bites her lip to keep from laughing, and when she glances back at the boys' table, she catches Jasper watching her.  He smiles, warm and bright like the Christmas lights strung up all over Adelina's house, and she blushes like a teenager as she smiles back.

 

Next to her, Sofia grins and wriggles in her chair.  "Uncle Jasper _likes_ you," she sing-songs around a mouthful of M &Ms.

 

Maria cocks an eyebrow.  "You think?"

 

Isabel rolls her eyes.  "Next year," she decides, "I'm going to be on the team with my brothers."

* * *

**Nov. 30 – Wait**

 

"What about next weekend?" Kate asks, scrolling through her phone.  "Dad and Heather wanna try family dinner on Sunday, which means I'm definitely free."

 

America shakes her head.  "Can't.  The moms scheduled some kinda new-age feelings shit, and I'm trying this thing where I'm not a total asshole to them."  Billy hides his grin in Teddy's shoulder, and she whips around to glare at him.  "Listen, we blacked out all of your holiday for you, _chico_ , so don't—"

 

Billy raises his hands.  "I'm not judging," he says, and Kate raises her eyebrows.  "I'm not!  I just like how hard she works to sound pissed when she's obviously not."

 

Eli frowns.  "Are you suggesting that she's well-adjusted or something?"

 

Teddy snorts, but Billy just shrugs.  "Maybe better-adjusted?  Or at least not a marauding ball of rage and—"

 

America pings her balled-up napkin off his head, and the table erupts into laughter.  Well, most the table, because Cassie despite everything else, Cassie clings desperately to her patented Serious Face.  "If we don't finally schedule Friends-mas—"

 

"Never approved that name," Teddy mutters.

 

Cassie glowers at him.  "—we will miss each other all December, and I am _not_ missing you all December.  Okay?"

 

America and Eli both open their mouths to argue, but Kate shoots them sharp looks.  Killer looks, because nobody messes with Cassie's Serious Face and lives to tell the tale. 

 

Across the table, Teddy covers Billy's mouth with his hand.  "Friends-mas," he says reverently, and Cassie smiles.

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 1 – Prepare**

"Yeah, you're officially broken," Sam grumbles, "and worse, you're dragging me down with you."

 

Like always, Riley rolls his eyes.  The guy looks like a Christmas tree, all covered in garland and lights, and for some reason, he wears his Santa hat at a jaunty angle.  Worse, the bell on the end jingles in time with the music.

 

For a whole ten seconds, Sam tries glaring at him.  Then, the dog walks by in his Christmas sweater, and he sighs instead of complaining.

 

"You know the routine," Riley says, his head still part of the way in a box labeled **XMAS**.  "The music starts on Black Friday, the decorations come out December 1.  Long-standing family tradition."

 

"Yeah, except I'm technically not family," Sam points out, the same rote line from the last five years.  This time, though, Riley stills like somebody spooked him, and Sam flinches.  "That the wrong thing to say?  Because I'm pretty sure I said it last year, but if I need to come up with a new one—"

 

"Nah, it's just . . . " 

 

He trails off, shaking his head a little, and Sam works hard to wait.  Patience, according to Riley's therapist, is important even in the tense silences.  Especially then, Sam thinks, and swallows around the urge to talk.

 

Finally, though, Riley glances up at him.  "You're as good as family," he says, his voice uncharacteristically small.  "Even if we never do anything about it, you're it in everything but name.  Okay?"

 

And even though Sam knows all that—even though he's known it for years, since back when he planted his ass next to Riley's bedside and promised to help nurse him back to health—he smiles like a kid on Christmas.  "Yeah, I know," he replies, and Riley smiles back.

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 2 – Alert**

"Are you really going to stay up all night?"

 

Melinda crosses her arms when she asks, straight-up judging him, and Nick scowls without really looking at her.  Their whole living room twinkles thanks to the lights on their tree, and the hooks on the mantle work hard to hold up the kids' overflowing stockings.

 

Just another Christmas Eve, aside from the second shot of Baileys in his coffee.

 

Melinda waits for another couple seconds before she sighs, trudging over to the couch like a woman on death row.  "You don't need to stay up," she says, flopping down next to him.  "The boys—"

 

"Claim we put the fear of god in them, but do you trust them?"  She studies him for a moment, her own special blend of an answer, and he shrugs as he hands her his coffee mug.  "I know we should probably leave them alone—let 'em open all their gifts before dawn, whatever—but I don't want them ruining Beth's Christmas.  Not after last year."

 

Even behind the mug, her expression hardens.  "I still can't believe they didn't read the tags."

 

"Why bother with names when you can just destroy the whole house?"  She snorts at that, her mouth almost curving into a smile.  "You can go to bed, you know.  Lemme handle the whole 'constant vigilance' part of the evening."

 

"And risk you falling asleep on duty?" she retorts, resting her temple against his shoulder.  "Yeah, not gonna happen."

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 3 – Anticipate**

"Seriously?" Tommy complains.  "Our assignment's really—"

           

"Writing down something good about this time of year, yes."  He groans, a creature of pure disdain, and she raises her eyebrows at him.  "You want a one-way ticket back to child-sized solitary?  Because I won't hesitate to write you one.  I'll be the conductor on the misery polar express."

 

Across the circle, Kate and America whip their heads up.  Like sharks sensing blood in the water, Jessica realizes, and she jabs her pen in their direction.  "You can join him.  I love the smell of revoked diversions roasting on an open fire."

 

The girls exchange glances, but they keep their mouths shut.

 

"The holidays suck, sometimes," Jessica continues as she passes out the rest of the pens.  "You're reminded of loss, stuck with family you hate, _whatever_ , and on top of that, you're blasted with good cheer from every angle.  Hard to deal with a shriveled black heart when every third song is Mariah Carey."

 

Teddy frowns.  "What's wrong with Mariah Carey?"

 

Eli raises his eyebrows.  "You got twenty minutes?"

 

Jessica ignores Teddy's offended grunt to grin.  "We'll spend the next couple weeks working through the hard parts of the holidays, but tonight?  One thing you're looking forward to.  Besides the new year," she adds, tossing a glance over at Nathaniel.

 

He wrinkles his nose.  "Spoil sport."

 

"Always," she retorts.  "Now, write."

 

* * *

 

**Dec. 4 – Love**

"You need to go home," Pepper says.  Well, whispers, actually, thanks to the sandpaper living in the back of her throat.  "Leave me before I infect you and we're both disgusting."

 

Natasha snorts into her paper bag.  "I don't know about you, but I'm radiant when I'm sick."

 

"I'll believe it when I see it," Pepper grumbles—and immediately falls victim to a coughing fit.

 

She leans against the kitchen counter for as long as possible, her chest burning, but eventually, Natasha maneuvers her over to the couch.  By the time she's breathing again, there's a Lifetime Christmas special on the TV and a bowl of piping hot soup on the edge of the coffee table.  She reaches for it, desperate for something warm to soothe her throat, but Natasha whisks it away. 

 

"NyQuil," she instructs, holding out a tiny plastic cup.

 

Pepper wrinkles her nose.  "I don't need—"

 

Natasha shakes her head.  "You're not made of steel.  Drink."

 

The cold medicine tastes like alcoholic licorice (not a compliment), but as soon as Pepper downs it, Natasha hands over the bowl.  She sits next to her on the couch the whole time, sometimes smoothing hair out of her eyes.  Like cuddling, Pepper thinks, and presses their shoulders together.

 

"You didn't need to do this," she points out when the soup's final gone.  Her eyelids feel incredibly heavy.  "Why did you decide to come over when I'm sick?"

 

"You know why," Natasha replies, and wraps her arm around Pepper's shoulders.

* * *

 

**Dec. 5 – Inquire**

"Are you out of your mind?"

 

Clint shrugs.  "Maybe?" he answers, and Darcy shoots him a dirty look.  Not the real serious kind, but the one where she wrinkles her nose and huffs.  He rolls his eyes.  "Lemme rephrase:  I can't answer 'til I know what you're talking about."

 

"I'm talking about this insane offer," she replies, thrusting her cell phone at him.  "You'll dismiss three pretty serious infractions if he pleads to the expired driver's license?  That's like four hundred dollars of fines."

 

"Closer to four-fifty, but yeah."  Her face turns accusatory in record time, and Clint raises his hands.  "What do you want me to tell you?  I've got seventy—"

 

"Eighty-two," Judge English's assistant corrects from her place by the door.

 

He ignores Darcy's full-body twitch to continue, "Eight-two people on today's traffic docket.  And for every lead-foot college student who wants to complain about speeding in a construction zone, I've got somebody like your client."  He shrugs again, reaching for another folder.  "I'm striking deals to pick up the slack."

 

"No, you're striking insane deals," Darcy counters, hands on her hips.  "Did you hit your head?  I'll call Phil.  Help pin you down while he shines a penlight in your eyes."

 

Clint grins.  "What, you saying I can't get in the Christmas spirit?"

 

"I'm saying you got that kitty litter disease from your cat!" she shouts back, and he laughs as he calls the next defendant.

 

* * *

 

**Dec. 6 – Equity**

"Are you number-crunching?  Is that actually a thing we do at Christmas now?  Because I'll buy you an ornamental abacus if that's what you're into."

 

Bruce rolls his eyes, but fondly, like a man who voluntarily chose life's most annoying path and thanks his lucky stars for it.  He also thanks Tony for the tea (popping hot, brewed from loose leaf, with a hint of honey—just the way he likes it) and resists complaining when Tony flops down on the couch and swings feet into his lap

 

Just a normal winter night, really, aside from the whole calculator-and-notebook combination.

 

Tony allows Bruce roughly two more minutes of uninterrupted work before poking him in the stomach with his toe.  "You gonna tell me what you're up to, or do I need to guess?" he wonders.  "Because I thought we'd agreed to stop budgeting ourselves to death, but if you need me to flash you the balance of our money market account again, I'll—"

 

Bruce sighs.  "Ignoring that it's _your_ money market account, not mine," he replies, "I'm running the numbers on Christmas gifts."

 

Tony blinks, frowning a little.  "We track how much we spend on our friends, now?"

 

"Not our friends, our kids."  His frown deepens, mostly without his permission, and Bruce studies him.  "You want it to be even, right?  No new phone for Teddy while Amy lands three dolls and an Easy Bake Oven."

 

"That child needs her own kitchen, not a glorified toaster oven that'll probably burn the house down."  Bruce snorts, almost smiling, but Tony just rolls his lips together.  "And trust me, I'm totally on _team equitable distribution of wealth_ , at least when we're talking about Christmas gifts.  I just didn't—"

 

He pauses right there, the words sort of escaping him, and Bruce's expression softens.  "You didn't know parents do this for their children," he guesses quietly.

 

Tony shrugs.  "Funny how stuff like that never comes up when you're a friendless only child and your dad likes wintering in Malta," he murmurs, and Bruce rubs his ankle without saying a word.

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 7 – Together**

"I do not understand."  Jane sighs, her temple resting against the wall, and Thor shakes his head.  "I am trying to be reasonable," he promises, "but after all they've done—"

 

"Besides raising you to adulthood?  Watching you start a family of your own?"  He frowns into the mirror, and she rubs her forehead.  "Thor, you know I love your parents, but I can't deal with another Christmas in Wisconsin right now."

 

He draws in a breath, prepared to argue, but Liam interrupts them by mewling from his bassinette.  Jane ducks out of the bathroom to check on him, leaving Thor alone with only his thoughts and his toothbrush.  A fine combination, aside from how lonely the small room feels without Jane beside him.

 

They're together in the bed by the time he finishes, Liam nestled against his mother's chest and eating greedily.  "I think I should apologize," he says as he sits beside her.  "Swear to you the next won't demand as much attention."

 

Jane snorts.  "You really think that's possible?"

 

"No, but I enjoy dreaming."

 

She shakes her head, almost smiling, and he studies her for a few seconds before surveying their bedroom.  A few of Astrid's toys lay abandoned in the corner, along with three pairs of his socks and one of Jane's favorite t-shirts.  The sign of a life well-lived, he realizes, and reaches over to push the hair out of his wife's face.

 

"My favorite part of the holidays was always my family," he admits, voice quiet.  "Packed together in a small house, surrounded by the scent of my mother's cooking and my cousins' endless laughter."  Jane purses her lips, and as her eyes sweep across his face, he smiles.  "Perhaps it is time we filled our house and allowed our children to experience the same magic."

 

"I like the way you think," she replies, and kisses his palm.

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 8 – Justice**

Emma holds up a hand.  "Stop," she says, and the room falls silent.  "Go back to the cottage cheese, please."

 

"Yogurt," Bobby corrects her.  Pietro huffs, rolling his eyes, and Wanda tries hard not to dig her heel into his toes.  "A four-pack of Greek yogurt.  The whipped kind, because—"

 

"You're trying to avoid baby weight, yeah, you put that in the e-mail."  Wade flaps a hand at Bobby's glare, his elbows on the conference room table.  "Look, I know you're trying to go all Jessica Fletcher on our asses and whatever—"

 

" _That's_ your detective of choice?" Foggy demands.

 

"Angela Lansbury is a national treasure, you heathen."  Like an expert, Nate hides his smile.  Wade continues, "I totally appreciate a good parlor reveal and everything.  Really.  But yogurt's not exactly the crowned jewels, you know?"

 

Carol glances up from a court report.  "Says the guy who threatened divorce over a missing Fruit Roll-Up."

 

"Because he colluded with our kid!" Wade retorts, and like usual, Carol shakes her head.

 

The room quiets again after that, with Bobby peering at all of them in abject suspicion.  Well, suspicion and annoyance, since not one of them replied to his e-mail about _owning up now and avoiding the consequences_.  Bobby writes like he plans on burning the office down around their ears, but his bark is much worse than his bite.

 

At least, Wanda hopes.

 

After what feels like a lifetime, Emma sighs.  "Just label your food, okay?  Because honestly, I can't take another one of these asinine meetings."

 

Bobby scowls.  "But—"

 

"It's yogurt, Bobby," she says, pushing back her chair.  "Get a grip."

 

A few hours later, after Karen and Sam both return from hearings and life feels a little normal again, Wanda walks over to lean against her brother's desk.  "Suggestion for your new year's resolution."

 

He continues typing.  "Yes?"

 

"No more stealing yogurt from the break room."

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 9 – Endure**

"I'm going to die," Foggy complains, falling onto the couch.  "Literally.  I will shrivel up, transform into a raisin of a man, and all because of Matt's _terrible_ taste in Christmas music."

 

Karen stops trimming the tree to grin at him.  "I think it's cute.  Like we're kids again."

 

"Kids with horrendous taste!" Foggy shoots back, and she laughs as he presses his face into a throw pillow.  "You know what I hated more than anything as a kid?  And let me be clear, I'm talking about top-tier loathing.  Worse than broccoli."

 

She sighs.  "The Chipmunk Christmas album?"

 

"The Chipmunk Christmas album!" he announces, almost like she never answered his question.  When she laughs again, fond in all the right ways, Foggy drags his tortured body off the couch and slides up behind her.  Chin on her shoulder, arms around her middle in the bear hug, just like god intended.  "You're not very sympathetic," he complains, his nose almost in her hair.  "I need sympathy.  Tenderness.  A distraction from Alvin, Simon, and Theodore."

 

Karen shakes her head.  "I'm on tree duty, remember?"

 

"Yeah, but Matt's good for it."

 

"Matt's blind.  And, more importantly, he's working on a motion."  Foggy groans, hiding his face in her neck, and she chuckles.  "Help me with the tree?"

 

He breathes her in for a second before saying, "You're a slave driver, you know that?"

 

She shrugs.  "Hey, someone needs to keep you boys in line."

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 10 – Repent**

"They spiked the eggnog, English.  A couple swigs, and I saw stars.  Like in a cartoon, except these stars kept telling me to stick my tongue down a sociopath's throat."

 

Peggy rolls her eyes as she shrugs out of her coat.  "I know she's a bit off-kilter, but—"

 

"Off-kilter?" Angie demands, springing from the couch.  Well, springing and teetering, the combination of swift movement and alcohol almost knocking her over again.  "Look, I don't know how they make them across the pond—"

 

"No different from here, I assure you."

 

"—but Dottie's a sharp knife and a dark alley away from serial killer status.  The Menace of Ames, they'll call her.  Put this state right on the map."  Peggy sighs, shaking her head, and her friend collapses back onto the couch.  "A couple billion women on the planet," she laments, "and my sorry lizard brain's into long legs and crazy eyes."

 

"Don't forget her lack of social graces and shark-toothed smile."  Angie scowls as Peggy flops down next to her, but she wastes no time in tipping her head against Peggy's shoulder.  Peggy smiles and rests her cheek on familiar curls.  "I can think of worse candidates for the future Mrs. Martinelli," she admits, "and worse fates than making out with a friend under some hideous cardboard mistletoe."

 

Angie shifts just enough to peer over at her.  "You heard anything from Daniel?"  Peggy purses her lips for a moment before shaking her head, and her friend sighs.  "Maybe we should try celibacy, you know?  Like those monks back in the day, hanging out and writing those illuminated books all the time."

 

Peggy snorts.  "At most, you'd last three days," she replies, and Angie elbows her until she laughs.

 

* * *

 

**Dec. 11 – Joy**

"Are you tearing up?"

 

"No," Tony says, voice rough like sandpaper, and Steve raises his eyebrows.  Up on the stage, a dozen little girls dance to a synthetized version of "Carol of the Bells."  The music grates on Steve's nerves, but there's something about a bunch of kids in sparkly silver outfits that tug at his heart strings.

 

Tony's too, apparently.

 

The guy wipes his face with his fingertips, quick enough that Buck and Bruce miss it, and tosses a sideways glance at Steve.  "For the record," he mutters, "I'm not in a glass case of emotion or whatever you're planning to include in the group text the second we're done here.  I'm not weeping openly, and my garments are thoroughly un-rended.  Okay?"

 

Steve tilts his head a couple degrees.  "But?"

 

"There's no _but_.  Why do you assume—"  He tilts his head a little more, his eyebrows still raised, and Tony heaves a sigh.  "You ever feel the way our kids feel right now?  Last, I don't know, decade excluded, because we've both sort of won the person-life lottery."

 

He gestures at the kids as they transition from almost-ballet to some kind of almost-tap.  Immediately, Dot catches his eye, and she loses her rhythm for a second as she stops to wave at him.  He smiles and waves back. 

 

"Honestly?"  Tony shoots him one hell of a withering look, and Steve snorts.  "I had a real hard time before I moved in with my grandmother.  Dead dad, sick mom, sick _me_ . . . "  He shakes his head.  "I would've traded pretty much anything to dance to terrible music, you know?"

 

"Well, let's not go crazy," Tony responds, and Steve laughs hard enough that the woman in front of them shushes him.

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 12 – Patient**

"Like I said:  kid can't cry forever."

 

"You sure?" Phil asks.  "Because right now, he looks pretty determined to prove you wrong."

 

Clint glares at him, more out of habit than actual anger, and P.J. calms down for a full thirty seconds before doubling down on the screaming.  A couple ladies eye them suspiciously, all pursed lips and judgmental little snorts, and Clint wonders for a second how they look:  two guys in slouchy weekend clothes lurking around one of Santa's mall-based satellite offices with a screaming toddler.

 

A toddler in his Sunday best, Clint amends, 'cause one of Phil's sisters'd shipped them a whole holiday ensemble, right down to a tiny baby bowtie.  At this point, the kid dresses better than some of their coworkers.

 

(Or, really, just Bruce.)

 

"Clint," Phil says, and Clint bristles at the way he sounds sympathetic instead of frustrated.  He knows how to parry back and forth with an annoyed husband, how to disarm him until they're both laughing; when Phil's eyes soften and his fingers brush the small of Clint's back, he kinda falls apart.  "I know you promised Barney that we'd take a picture with Santa, but every time you hand P.J. over—"

 

"Yeah, I know."  Clint glances down at their—well, his brother's, technically—snuffling baby and shakes his head.  "One more try, and if he looks like he's gonna freak, I'll sit with him.  Tell Santa all my deepest secrets or whatever."

 

Phil snorts, but he smiles, too.  "If you ask nicely," he replies, "maybe I'll join you."

 

"You even know how to do that?" Clint wonders, and Phil rolls his eyes.

 

(In the end, he frames the picture.  And sends it to everybody he knows.  And, a good sixteen years later, shows it to P.J.'s prom date.)

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 13 – Tell**

"You're sure?" Wanda asks, studying him.  "Because changing your mind, after she waited this long—"

 

"I know," Bruce replies, and she nods as she rolls her lips together.  Over at counsel table, her eleven-year-old client fidgets, a bundle of nerves in a green sweater.  The more Bruce studies her, the more he imagines a Christmas tree:  tall and festive, with ornament-shaped earrings and a snowflake necklace.  Her costume for the school Christmas pageant, her mother'd boasted.

 

The memory warms his heart as he glances to his left.  "Any thoughts?"

 

Kurt Wagner—seasoned social worker with a habit for humming Christmas carols—bounces on the balls of his feet.  "I think her mother has worked very hard," he replies, "and that if we say she's still not done enough, she'll feel discouraged."  He flicks his eyes to the girl at counsel table.  "And she wants to go home for Christmas.  Really, more than anything, she—"

 

"All rise," the security officer interrupts, and Bruce touches Kurt's arm as he walks back to his table.  Mother, daughter, and their respective attorneys all gather around the other; when Judge Smithe waves at them to sit, their knees bump.  The girl grins at that, her earrings tinkling, and just like that, Bruce knows the right course of action.

 

When she finishes calling the case, the judge asks, "How're we spending today's review hearing, Dr. Banner?"

 

Wanda nods at him as he stands.  "After talking to Mr. Wagner and Ms. Maximoff," he says, "I think we're looking at sending Becca home with her mom."

 

The girl gasps, and her mother bursts into tears.

 

And despite his well-trained lawyer face, Bruce smiles.

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 14 – Strong**

"Please tell me that's not the ridiculous tricycle we decided not to buy."

 

Luke pauses, his muscles bulging like something out of an action movie (a good one, no less), and Jessica plants her hands on her hips. Without shivering, an impressive feat in their meat locker of a garage.  They stare at each other for a couple seconds before Luke says, "Listen—"

 

"No.  No conning me into ridiculous kid gifts with your face and your—"  She gestures vaguely to all of him, from the skin-tight henley to his soft, worn jeans, and he smirks.  "You're an asshole," she informs him.  "Worse, you're spoiling our kid.  That's a job for the godparents, not us."

 

Luke snorts.  "Surprised Trish hasn't signed her up for baby's first muy thai."

 

"Oh, she already texted me about modified krav maga."  He grins, and Jessica jabs a finger at him.  "And don't change the subject!  Because the more we buy for Dani, the less—"

 

"Okay, stop."  The box hits the floor with a pretty significant thump, and Jessica rolls her lips together.  "First, I think of all people, you'd know there's nothing wrong with showing your kid she's loved.  Even," he adds when she wrinkles her nose, "if that means spoiling her a little.  And second, present's not for Dani."

 

Jessica squints at the brightly wrapped monstrosity.  "No.  There is no way that thousand-pound monster box is for me."

 

He shrugs.  "You complained I never go all-out.  Figured I'd take the hint."

 

"And make me suffer for ten days?" she complains, smacking him.  "You know I'm not strong enough for that shit!"

 

As usual, her asshole husband just laughs.

 

* * *

 

**Dec. 15 – Lifted**

"Oh, Fitz, cheer up," Jemma chides.  She sounds cheery and worried at the same time, just like his mum, and he scowls.  "There's nothing better than shopping at Christmas!  The lights, the music, the—"

 

"Crowds of strangers invading your—  You know, the—"  He waves his hands a little, like miming a shield, and she raises her eyebrows.  He sighs.  "There are too many people," he amends, "and I want to go home."

 

"To watch three hours of Netflix and fall asleep with your cat."  She loops her arm in his, and he works hard not to roll his eyes.  "It's the holidays, Fitz.  Carols and peace on earth and Christmas crackers.  And, more importantly, a fresh start next year."

 

He wrinkles his nose, not confident enough in his words to actually answer, and she pats his hand as she drags him into the crowd.  They pass by children and adults, dodge giant purses and bigger shopping bags, but even with all the garland and the lights, he feels a little empty.  Hollow, really, like someone dug out the last remaining globs of his dignity with one of those little melon spoons.

 

On second thought, maybe his therapist is right about the catastrophic thinking.

 

"Hey, look what the cat dragged in!" a familiar voice announces, and Fitz glances up to see—  Well, he only knows Trip _as_ Trip, technically, an employee of one of Melinda's thousand friends.  Either way, the man grins like the Cheshire cat, and Jemma immediately wraps him up in a breath-stealing hug.

 

Fitz shoves his hands in his pockets.

 

"Lemme guess," Trip says, "you dragged Leo out to help shop for Skye, right?  Find the perfect gift for the computer nerd who's got everything?  I only ask 'cause I did the same thing to poor Mack."

 

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, and Fitz promptly forgets how to form coherent thoughts.  Not because of his brain or trauma, either, but because the man standing behind Trip looks like a god.  Like someone chiseled from marble, he thinks, and his cheeks heat up.

 

"For the record," the stranger says, "I didn't volunteer.  I'm Mack, by the way."

 

He sticks out a hand, and Jemma grins.  "I'm Jemma, and this is Fitz.  Well, technically Leo, but we all call him—"

 

"Hi," Fitz says, and he waves weakly.

 

(Later, after the introductions and the small talk and the stilted goodbyes, Jemma comments, "Mack certainly has an impressive physique, wouldn't you say?"

 

Fitz elbows her just to hide his blush.)

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 16 – Gladness**

"I hate teenagers," Jessica Drew declares, dropping onto the couch.  "Their smug, pimpled faces, their terrible attitudes, their refusal to answer the judge's question until I step on their feet under counsel table—"

 

"When Judge Rees reports you to the disciplinary administrator for bruising your client, I'm not testifying at the hearing."  Jessica waits for Carol to hand over her coffee cup before flipping her the bird, but Carol just rolls her eyes.  "You need a serious attitude adjustment.  I am not dealing with _this_ all night."

 

Jessica wrinkles her nose.  "This," she retorts, gesturing with her coffee cup, "suffered through eight hours of court today.  _Eight_.  And that's not including the fifty-six unread e-mails waiting for me."  She tosses Carol a sideways glance.  "Can't we skip this year?  Please?"

 

"Okay, there's no way you actually asked that," Carol answers, and Jessica sighs as she closes her eyes.  "Jess, the sing-along _Messiah_ is your favorite part of the holiday season.  You made me go the year I had my appendix out.  There's no way I'm letting your bad day ruin Christmas."

 

Jessica snorts.  "Lemme guess:  expensive tickets?"

 

"Not cheap, but not the point!"  She smiles a little, and Carol nudges her arm.  "You had a crappy day, sure.  But I promise this'll cheer you up."

 

Reluctantly, Jessica peeks out at her buddy.  "How drunk are we going to be by the end?"

 

Carol pops open her bag to reveal not one but two flasks.  "Rhodey's already on call to pick us up," she promises, and Jessica laughs.

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 17 – Mercy**

"I feel like a fool," Volstagg complains, sighing.  "A fat, poorly dressed fool."

 

"Ah, but a fool who drew the short straw!" Fandral points out.  He hops out of the back of Volstagg's pickup truck without noticing his glare.  "I know that you'd rather be playing an elf, my friend, but aside from not looking the part—"

 

"Unlike you," Hogun mutters.

 

"—you lost fair and square."  He pats Volstagg on the shoulder.  "Don't worry.  The children will love you."

 

"The children," Volstagg corrects, "will be frightened.  And probably wonder why Santa's suit is so tight this year."

 

"It's not their fault you waited too long to call the costume shop," Heimdall notes, and of course, his friend glowers at him.  While adjusting his wide leather belt, naturally.  "We're visiting a group home.  These children will be so happy to see you, they won't pay attention to your suit."

 

"Until the nightmares start," Hogun agrees.  "We'll be gone by then."

 

"Having left them full of cheer!"  Fandral tosses Hogun a ball of green felt.  "Here, put this on.  We're not Santa, two elves, and an attorney without his tie."

 

Hogun scowls at the matching hat and pointed collar.  "These are for court jesters."

 

"Like we said:  Volstagg called the costume shop about three week too late."  Hogun rolls his eyes, but Heimdall simply swings the sack of Christmas gifts over his shoulder.  "We're going to show these children some small mercies.  If that means wearing a ridiculous hat for an hour—"

 

"The hat is fine," Hogun interrupts, tugging it on.  "But I do not understand why Fandral's costume is better than ours."

 

As Vol-Santa's self-declared head elf, Fandral grins.  "Why, I already owned it, obviously," he replies, and merrily leads them into the foster home.

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 18 – Peace**

"Hand me your sidearm," Victoria says.  "I'm going to murder some carolers."

 

"You remember you're friends with a third of the district attorney's office, right?" Isabelle asks, and her wife scowls.  Outside, a group of teen girls—Cadet Girl Scouts, most likely—huddles on the corner and belts out a pretty terrible rendition of "Deck the Halls."

 

Inside, Victoria splashes more rum into her eggnog.

 

"This a student thing, a family thing, or an undecided thing?" Isabelle wonders, sliding up behind her.  Victoria snorts and tries to slip away, but Isabelle practically pins her to the counter.  "You're a miserable pain in the ass for most of December.  Accepted that a long time back.  But when you're still draining the liquor cabinet three days from break, I worry."

 

Victoria rolls her eyes.  "You always worry."

 

"It's how I show love."  She almost smiles at that, a ghost of decent Christmases past, and Isabelle pokes her in the hip.  "Come on.  Students, family, or just a generally shitty mood?"

 

The kids switch to "Hark, the Herald Angels" sing, and Victoria sighs.  "The fundraising drive fucking sucked," she admits.  "Unless we squeeze some more blood from the stone that is our bank account, we'll end the school year on an operating deficit."

 

"And you're able to fix that problem a week before Christmas?" Isabelle asks, raising her eyebrows.  Victoria screws up her face again, and Isabelle tugs at the end of her sweater.  "Big-picture strategic planning can wait."

 

"Until when?  Next Christmas?"

 

"Until after the carolers, at least," Isabelle responds, and drags her wife toward their front door.

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 19 – Ponder**

 

"I didn't know they let you out unsupervised."

 

Her voice startles Loki, and for the briefest of seconds, he fears dumping an entire shelf of toddler-aged books on the floor.  She smirks, and he rolls his eyes.  "I've heard the same thing said about you."

 

"Well, that assumes I'm here alone."  Sif jerks a thumb over her shoulder, and Loki laughs at the sight of her brother sorting through a stack of educational board games.  "Every year, he adopts a family for Christmas," she says, her shoulder propped against the bookcase.  "And every year, we lose a day to his last-minute shopping."

 

Loki raises an eyebrow.  "You'd be better prepared?"

 

She shrugs.  "I'd fake it better," she replies, and he laughs.

 

His laughter goads her into a smile that's as familiar as the sunrise, and Loki drops his gaze back to the board books.  It's easier to decide between _Chicka Chicka Boom Boom_ and _Hop on Pop_ than to bask in the warmth of Sif's favor.  Not, of course, that she favors him.  If anything, he's a convenient target, someone to poke fun at rather than—

 

"For your niece and nephew?" Sif wonders, and he blinks out of his reverie as she picks up a copy of _Goodnight, Moon_.  Her smile dims as she smooths her finger over the cover.  "I always liked this one.  Ezra read it to me when we were children."

 

He snorts.  "When he wasn't pulling your hair, no doubt."

 

"Or suffering through my spitballs," she counters, sliding the book back onto the shelf.  "I should rescue him.  Otherwise, some poor child is going to unwrap three decks of Uno cards Christmas morning."

 

"Certainly can't have that," Loki agrees, and she squeezes his hand as she walks away.

 

He studies her for a long time before reassembling the bookcase.

 

(On Christmas morning, Astrid receives three outfits, a loud toy, and a copy of _Goodnight, Moon_.)

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 20 – Sign**

"This is a sign we're on the naughty list, right?" Billy asks, scowling.  "Like, if we believe Santa's a weird stand-in for Jesus—"

 

"Is that actually a thing?" Teddy wonders.

 

"—he definitely saw us _not_ sleeping and responded accordingly.  That's the only explanation."

 

The Kaplan's house looks like a warzone.

 

Actually, no, because warzones feel neat and organized compared to the disaster that is the Kaplan living room.  Billy's younger brothers, hopped up on Mountain Dew and Hanukkah gelt, ping-pong all over the place, combatants in the world's most violent _The Floor is Lava_ session.  Gold wrappers from the (stolen) candy litter the coffee table and floor, a perfect companion to the empty soda cans, broken lamp, and ripped curtain.

 

One brother tackles the other onto the floor, and Billy covers his face with his hands.  "We left them alone for ten minutes," he groans.

 

Teddy scratches the side of his neck.  "Actually—"

 

"Not the time," Billy warns, and Teddy snaps his jaw shut as his boyfriend surveys the damage.  "Mom's literally going to kill me, this time.  They're not supposed to have soda.  Or climb on the furniture.  Or crawl onto the cabinet to get the gelt off the top shelf."  He presses his face against Teddy's arm.  "I'm a dead man."

 

Teddy slings an arm around him.  "Maybe we can clean it up before she gets home?" he suggests.

 

Billy raises his head just enough to peer up at him.  "You really don't know how siblings work, do you?"

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 21 - Belong**

 

"You ever going home, or are we stuck with you?"

 

Clint asks the quest like a joke, all grins and eggnog mustache, and Kate rolls her eyes.  Next to her on the floor, P.J. stops banging on one of the freshly wrapped gifts to peer up at the guy.  His delighted grin lights up brighter than six Christmas trees.

 

"You seriously picking a guy who can't wipe his face over me?" Kate demands.  Clint responds by rubbing his sleeve over his mouth like a toddler.  "And, in case you forgot, you invited me over.  Said you can't finish the wrapping without me.  I'm slave labor at this point."

 

"Amount you eat over here, you're more like an indentured servant."  When she stops wrapping to raise an eyebrow, he shrugs.  "Phil's really into documentaries about colonial times, right now."

 

She snorts.  "You're both losers."

 

"Says the girl who keeps showing up on my doorstep."

 

The joke hits her in the place it hurts, but instead of saying something, she flicks a tiny bow at the cat and resumes her wrapping.  Except Clint sticks around like always, sipping his drink and watching her with those sharp eyes; when she finally sighs, it feels mostly like a gust of wind.  "We're going to Mexico on Christmas Eve," she says, still working.  "My sister's got the whole family thing going on, and Dad—  Well, Dad wants what Heather wants, and Heather wants to sunbathe with a drink in her hand.  Some Christmas, right?"

 

Her voice feels weird at the end, like it's caught in the back of her throat, and she shakes her head as she steals the ribbon from P.J.  By the time she needs the scissors, though, Clint's kneeling next to her.  "Kate."

 

"Don't," she says, the word still sticky.  "I'll be fine.  I'll reread those books Billy lent me or something, no big—"

 

"Look at me for a second."  She swallows a couple times before she raises her head, but Clint just smiles at her, his whole face gentle.  "You're eighteen, right?"

 

She shrugs.  "Yeah."

 

"Going to college next year?  Renting an apartment or whatever?"

 

She rolls her eyes.  "Staying in a dorm, probably, but—"

 

"Soon as that happens, you come here.  'Cause there's a lot of tape when you invite a minor to hang out with you over break, but a college-aged adult . . . "  She kind of gapes at him, and he shrugs.  "You're the kid's favorite person, and we like having you around.  And besides, you really think Phil's gonna be able to hang tough on the Santa thing without both of us?"

 

Despite how bad her eyes sting, Kate laughs.  "He is the _worst_ liar," she agrees, and Clint grins as he hugs her tight.

 

* * *

 

**Dec. 22 – Restore**

Here's a story for the ages:

 

Back a million years ago, Nick's granddad'd scored him a Batman lunchbox as a Christmas gift.  You know the one:  metal, matching thermos, hand-painted illustration on the front.  For years, Nick'd loved that luncbox, and he'd lugged it around with a single-minded devotion.

 

At least, 'til high school'd rolled around and he'd ditched superheroes for impressing his friends.

 

Years later, when his pops'd kicked the bucket, he'd torn up his old bedroom in search of the damn lunchbox.  A memento from his granddad, but of course, he'd never found the damn thing.  He figures he'd forgotten it in a locker or ditched it on a bus, typical teenage bullshit.

 

All of which maybe explains why, when he tears open his Christmas gift from the office, his heart jumps right into his throat.

 

"I don't—" he starts, but he barely trusts his voice as he peers into the box.  "There's no way in hell you found this.  I mean, I don't even know—"

 

"It's not yours, if that's what you're worried about," Phil says, still hovering next to the table.  "It's an original, though.  Near-mint condition.  We've all heard you talk about your grandfather.  All we needed after that was Melinda and a really patient internet merchant."  He shrugs.  "Weren't sure you'd like it, but we figured we'd shoulder the risk."

 

Nick glances out at all of them—technically his employees, maybe, but mostly his _friends_ —and shakes his head.  "Gonna be a tough act to follow next year," he tells them, and they grin while Phil pats him on the back.

 

* * *

 

 

**Dec. 23 – Promise**

"Did you know God, like, gave us the baby Jesus?  Like a Christmas present, just before the first time we ever had Christmas."

 

Dot loves her uncle Tony for a hundred reasons.  One time, at school, she'd scribbled them all on the poster about her family, and her teacher'd looked at her with really big eyes before saying, _You know a lot of numbers, Dot_.

 

(Dot knows all her numbers, even the big ones.)

 

But Uncle Tony—  Even though she loves him a lot, sometimes, she feels sorry for him.  Because sometimes, even at Christmas time, his eyes droop and his shoulders go all soft and he looks sad.  Her dads call it a lot of big words, like _grief_ and _limbering deep-pression_ , but Dot likes how her Sunday School teacher Riley'd explained it when she'd asked him after class:

 

_Sometimes, when everyone else is happy, you remember times you used to be happy, and it hurts a little.  Sort of like going to a birthday party but thinking about the friend who can't be there because they moved away._

Right now, though, Uncle Tony looks confused instead of sad, like Dot interrupted all his sad thoughts by talking about the baby Jesus.  And even though her dads'd already said to be careful with her Christmas dress, she climbs into his lap on the couch.  "The baby Jesus is like a present and a promise at the same time," she explains, just like Riley'd said.  "Because we're all supposed to be happy and warm and good, and he helps.  That's why we have Christmas:  to remember he helps."

 

Uncle Tony frowns at her, his face all crinkly and weird.  "And why do I need the pint-sized theology lesson, exactly?"

 

Dot shrugs.  "Because you look sad, and nobody should be sad when we're opening presents and celebrating Christmas."

 

His mouth pops open, and for a second, he stares at her with big eyes like her teacher.  And when he hugs her—a big, giant, warm Uncle Tony bear hug—she feels it in her toes.  "Thanks, squirt."

* * *

 

**Dec. 24 – Incarnation**

"You tired?  Because—and I promise, no criticisms, just joy—I'm totally exhausted and need about fifty-seven different naps."

 

Tony proves his point by essentially collapsing against Bruce, and despite the warmth that wells up in his heart, Bruce still rolls his eyes.  The living room looks a little like a tornado just whipped through it, all torn-up wrapping paper and abandoned ribbon.  Somewhere else in the house, the kids shout-laugh at each other, consumed by Teddy's new, complicated board game or Amy's easy-bake oven.

 

At some point, they'll trail downstairs and clean up the mess.  Well, Bruce hopes.

 

In the meantime, he strokes Tony's hairline absently, still distracted by the _30-Second Physics_ book from the kids.

 

"You know they're gonna get sick of this, right?" Tony asks a few seconds later, his eyes closed.  "The boys'll grow up a little, Amy'll stop buying into the whole Santa schtick, and we'll be sleeping in 'til noon on Christmas morning.  Drinking mimosas, instead of coffee.  Maybe with some fancy quiche."

 

Bruce snorts.  "You're making quiche?"

 

"Buying it.  Benefit of our untold riches."  He chuckles a little, and Tony peaks up at him.  "Just think about it.  This could be the last time Christmas looks like this."

 

"Let's hope not," Bruce replies, and Tony smiles. 

 


End file.
